In the Lion's Den
by lovelylunatic1991
Summary: The North bleeds. The North freezes. The North remembers...And just when he thinks it's safe enough to move on from it all, put the war, treachery and bloodlust behind him, he is dealt the most unexpected blow of all: the North steals Tywin Lannister's heart.
1. Chapter 1

"My lord, the lady Sansa Stark." The slender, young guard didn't meet Tywin's eyes, but rather stared at a point below his face, possibly at the brilliant, golden lion which fastened his cloak at the base of his neck.

"Yes," Tywin said with a short, clipped wave of his hand, motioning forth. "Let the lady in."

When she stepped through his door, the usually stern man felt as if he had stepped into a different time, or a different realm. He couldn't—nor wanted to—put his finger on just who her silent, fiery demeanor reminded him of. He fancied himself actually enjoying what was going to happen for a split second, then, mentally admonished himself and pointed to the chair in front of him. "Sit."

"My lord," Sansa curtsied, her cheeks slightly pink as she sat down in the seat before his writing desk, her movements somehow far too graceful for a girl of six and ten.

"How have you faired my lady? Wine?"

Sansa shook her head, a sudden fear filling her Tully blue eyes. Her mother's eyes. In a second the fear was gone. Or had he simply imagined it? Her gaze had turned to blue steel.

"No thank you—my Lord. You are kind for offering."

He made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and filled her cup halfway anyway, filling his to the brim and managing not to spill a drop as he brought it to his lips. He drank slowly, assuring himself that the wine would better settle his stomach after Cersei's dreadfully heavy, fattening dinner.

"I'm not sure what your idea of _kindness_ is at present time, but I can assure you that there is no need for _that_ in this room." And with that he set the cup down, the sound loud and echoing in the ensuing silence. Her cheeks flushed even darker, if possible, and he secretly enjoyed the sight of her becoming so flustered.

"I have not called you here to reprimand you or give you bad news, my lady. On the contrary."

Her eyes found his again, and the striking similarity she had at that moment with her late mother struck him breathless. Or was it because a secret part of him had only seen one other person look at him so intensely and she had been the love of his life, the mother of his children—oh, _Seven hells_. He needed to tread _very_ careful. Back then it had been grass green eyes that had stared at him lovingly, possessively, needing and _wanting_; now they were a different pair of eyes, yet the striking intensity had the same effect on him. The green had merely been replaced by a deep ocean blue with flecks of slate grey that made her eyes come alive. _Chips of ice in her Tully eyes, _he reflected, being reminded of Eddard Stark for what seemed like the millionth time in the past few years.

"My lord—Lord Lannister," she said, suddenly more adamant, her hands clasping in her lap. Her eyes looked as if they might brim over with tears, but she wrinkled her nose, feigning more allergies or perhaps a cold, as she had been doing for months now, and sucking in air very quickly and letting it out again to push right into her (Tywin was certain) very winning monologue. "I have been as good a wife as I could to Lord Tyrion. I have tried to—"

Tywin held up a hand and she stopped suddenly. That shiver of power went down his spine, leaving a soothing tingle in its wake, as it always did when he realized how much he could control without even uttering a single word.

"I am not interested in your love affair with my son, your former lord husband," he said firmly. "Or its lack thereof," he added as an afterthought, his voice somewhat lighter.

She flushed scarlet now, and the Lord of the Rock was amused and delighted to find out Sansa's face was nearly the same shade as her hair in certain places now. "My lord, forgive me."

Tywin waved her away dismissively. "There is nothing to forgive. I am well aware of my son's inability to plant a babe in your womb."

"It isn't—" She stopped talking when he glared at her, before continuing.

"I have a different arrangement for you in mind, Lady Stark. You must understand that securing the North is a very important responsibility that this kingdom has, and the Wall that comes with it."

Sansa's eyes widened, as if suddenly remembering something she had not thought about in a very long time. Her melancholic spell lasted for no more than two seconds before her eyes turned that same steely blue he had observed before. Tywin wondered if this related to a reflex she had…a way to block out the pain, some sort of coping mechanism. A sicker, more twisted part of him wondered if that was why Joffrey punished her and treated her the way he did. Did his grandson enjoy watching that vivacious, cerulean pair of eyes darken and cool into a harsh winter steel blue? Did he enjoy watching her as she closed herself off from the world and sought solace elsewhere, perhaps in a memory, or in the far recesses of her mind where no boy king had tampered with her innocence and childhood yet?

"I have already annulled your marriage to my son. The examination inside your chambers from three days ago administered by the seven septas was for all purposes," he swallowed, his pulse quickening at having to talk about such a thing, "a way to ensure that you are…_unspoiled_." The word sounded dirty in his mouth, and he saw how her brow creased when he said it, as if she too thought it a harsh approximation of a woman's virtue and value.

"I am untouched, my lord." There was a quiet turmoil inside her heart, he knew, and the proof was the dark storm brewing in those perfect eyes. Sansa was probably wondering what was to become of her; the fresh, sunny girl from the North who had fallen into deepest of depressions as she was passed from lion to lion. Deep down, Tywin doubted his plan would ever even work, but he had to do something. He was not a completely heartless man; the girl had suffered enough at the hands of Joffrey during their short engagement, sometimes even after being passed to his uncle Tyrion in marriage. Sometimes he would catch the quick shifting of her sleeves in court, but before he could dissect the reason behind the purple blemishes on the inside of her wrist, she would quickly tuck the material back into place, ever so gracefully and without a second glance to her surroundings. Tywin had observed the girl for a long time, and knew that for all the talk that went around, Sansa Stark was not an unintelligent person.

"I know," he said. "I have found a different arrangement for you—a more suitable husband. One who can protect you as well as," he paused, "ensure the future of your bloodline—the heirs of house Stark. Winterfell will always need a Stark to rule in it. However, seeing as you are the last known living member of your bloodline, you realize I had to consider multiple proposals from various prominent, and might I add extremely wealthy families. I was able to find the perfect match for you closer to home, however."

Her face paled suddenly, a complete reversal of what had happened before, and Tywin considered for a moment that the poor, frail girl might faint. He didn't have too much experience with tortured, depressed pubescent girls. Still, the eldest Stark girl did not speak, only bit that plump, rosy bottom lip and stared at him, as if afraid of what he might say next.

Tywin stared at her lips, mesmerized with the natural, childish tick—she probably didn't even realize she was doing it!—and felt suddenly very sick to his stomach. He shouldn't be thinking like this. He shouldn't be wondering what she would do if he were to suddenly stand up and reach over, brush his thumb over her jaw and grasp her chin, lean down for a kiss. He shouldn't be wondering what it would feel like, just once more, to sweep his lips over those of a maiden's; pure, untouched, innocent, perfect and waiting to be devoured—and Tywin Lannister had to consciously stop the brusque growl that was about to pour out of his throat. What had this girl done to him?! He glared at Sansa Stark, suddenly lost in translation, trying to remember where he had left off in his impressive, demanding explanation.

"My other son, Jaime Lannister, may—"

"No, please," she gasped, and then covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide and frightened for a moment, a blue eyed, fiery vixen. He reminded himself that her sigil was a wolf, but she reminded him of so many things, so many aspects of nature, so many facets of time, of his past, and of his heart—Tywin leaned back in his chair, his head swarming with nonsense and regarded the girl with sudden clarity in his mind.

"What do you object to, _girl_?" Tywin saw her bristle at being called that. "Is it the name or the match? Or his _hand_?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but the edge in it made her shiver and he allowed himself the smallest fragment of pleasure in the fact that he had her where he wanted her.

"I would rather not—Tyrion has told me how much he loves his older brother. It might be seen as an affront of sorts, and such is neither appropriate nor wanted within family relations." She paused and a sad smile sprung forth on Sansa's face, robbing Tywin of breath. "I would rather not be the cause of more familial discord, my lord. Not in my old family, nor my new one." She slowly raised her eyes to meet his. Tywin already knew the chips of ice and steel would be there before she had even graced him with her gaze.

"Then you leave me no other choice," he said. "Lancel Lannister."

She didn't even speak, just shook her head vehemently, the tears gleaming in her eyes threatening to soon burst over. "Please, I will do as is asked, I will provide Tyrion with an heir; it is not too late to cancel the annulment, is it not?! My lord, I beg of you—"

"There will be no begging here in this chamber," Tywin said icily, his eyes boring into hers, daring her to look away. "If you will not have Lancel, then I am afraid you are quite nearly out of options." Another pause, for he delighted in watching the Stark girl squirm. "Your last option is me."


	2. Chapter 2

"Then you leave me no other choice. Lancel Lannister." It sounded like he was appealing to her better senses rather than directly commanding her, and it gave Sansa the courage to push further with her plans and shake her head. "Please, I will do as is asked, I will provide Tyrion with an heir," she rambled desperately, not wanting to be given back to Joffrey and Cersei. "It is not too late to cancel the annulment, is it not?! My lord," she gasped softly, her eyes pleading intently now, "I beg of you—"

"There will be no begging here in this chamber," he interrupted with a tone of severe determination, his eyes a chilled shade of green as he stared her down. "If you will not have Lancel, then I am afraid you are quite nearly out of options." He paused then, and Sansa waited for the inevitable; he would return her to being a lady in waiting at Cersei's court, and then Joffrey would be free to do as he pleased, find her in the night perhaps, and—Tywin continued suddenly, breaking her out of dark, unpleasant thoughts. "Your last option is me."

The gravity in his voice was barely detectable, yet she noted it all the same. If Sansa had thought the man capable of the least amount of sympathy, she could have sworn that the frozen white gold flecks in his light green eyes melted into something alive and warm for a moment before he caught himself and cleared his voice. The small amount of compassion she might have imagined was gone, replaced by the majestic, shrewd glare of Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King.

"There is no getting past this matter. I should probably attempt to be more straightforward with you, Lady Stark." It wasn't the first time during their conversation that he had addressed her as such, and she bristled at the outdated, traitorous name. Yet a tingling began within her all the same...The invisible wolf inside of her growled, the remnants of a long lost companion killed too soon, and Sansa soon found the back of her neck heating as both her voice and courage returned to her in a rush.

"Please, I ask of you only this—do be frank with me, my lord," she said quietly. Sansa was sure he would find her defiant and rebellious for speaking out of turn, and unpleasantly so, certainly nothing befitting a future lady of house Lannister. That could only help increase her chances of _not _being married to a Lannister sometime in the immediate future. "I have been lied to enough, by many a lion." His gaze hardened at that, and she felt around for some leverage, hoping he wouldn't leave her for dead at the hands of Joffrey if she pushed him just a bit more. "Some lions never have much guidance, if my lord permits me to say. Every lion cub needs a good, strong mother to grow into a strong, able ruler. A true lion." Tywin's jaw was indeed flexed, but he didn't look particularly murderous as she frightfully had expected. He looked, if anything, completely bemused, and a little bit ashamed, all underlying the fiery anger that radiated off of him in tangible waves.

"I have been franker with you than current protocols of etiquette allow, my lord," she hesitated for only a second, "as I believe honesty to be a very important thing in a prospective wife. So please, afford me this honor of hearing only truth from your words."

"Are you calling me a _liar_?" he spat, suddenly towering above her. His face was a mask of pale shadows and sharp edges, the candlelight in the room making his whiskers and eyelashes shine like newly spun golden thread.

Sansa suddenly wondered just how old he was, and then there was a feeling of dread collecting deep in the pit of her stomach. If she married a Lannister, _any_ Lannister, she would end up needing to consummate the marriage. Not many people would afford her the respect and care of waiting for her and allowing her to retain her innocence until ready, as her previous husband Tyrion had. Sansa wondered for a moment how she was going to get out of this mess, out of this situation—with _him_, the father of a pair of inbreeding snakes who had birthed her torturer, had twisted her life and ripped her family apart…_Murdered _her loved ones.

A sense of panic suddenly replaced that intense dread, and Sansa found herself becoming short of breath. Darkness seized her, dragging her under its heavy current and soothing her woes for a short while.

When she came to, after what seemed like only moments, she was lying in her bed. Sansa could see Maester Pycelle and an apprentice by her side. A cool compress on her forehead was trickling water into her hair as they spoke in hushed voices, too low for her to hear. Sansa blinked until her vision came into focus, and tried sitting up on her elbows.

"Here," said the apprentice, rushing to sit on the bed next to her, cradling the back of her head in one hand as he pushed a small vial filled with white liquid to her face.

"No," she murmured brokenly, "_don't._"

Panic rose up inside of her, bubbling to the surface in a cold sweat that broke out on her back as he pressed the glass to her lips. Sansa tried to draw in a deep breath—prepared to scream, prepared to kick, they were going to _kill_ her, just like her father, and she needed to get away— but then held her breath suddenly as Tywin Lannister came into view.

He _was_ a Lannister, he was one of them, and yet…

And yet Sansa couldn't find it within herself to think that he wanted to hurt her. What would he have to gain from that?

"How do you feel?" he asked her, his voice crisp and curt as always.

"Better, my lord…But I do not need milk of the poppy. Please order the Maester away…" Sansa didn't know what else to say. The man's face gave nothing away, so she couldn't tell whether she had said the wrong thing. Before she could open her mouth to say something else in order to save face, Tywin had ordered both the Maester and apprentice out of the room.

The man was silent in his movements, crossing the room to reach the bed, and lifting his hand to her. Sansa looked down, confused, then realized he was holding a cup to her.

"Water," the Hand of the King said, and his tone implied that should she dare question him or his motives, he would employ the same maneuvers he did when ruling in place of Joffrey, and _not_ be forgiving in the slightest.

Sansa took the cup with shaking hands, thanked him, and took three small sips to appease him.

"Maester Pycelle says your moon's blood is nearly upon you." Hearing the man speak of her private matters so openly made Sansa inwardly cringe. "That is why you fainted. Nothing more." His voice was softer as he added, "You are perfectly healthy, Lady Stark."

Sansa did not know what to say. She had to say _something_, so she cleared her throat and went with what seemed safest.

"To hear that is a relief indeed. Thank you, my lord."

He was clenching his jaw and studying her, his lips a tight line, and Sansa couldn't tell if he was upset with her or not.

"You will rest for the remainder of the week. You will consider my offer, and I will summon you when I hear you are no longer indisposed." His gaze hardened, and Sansa felt a shiver go down her spine at the intimidating look he was giving her. "And you _will_ have an answer for me, Lady Stark."

"My lord," Sansa tried, "I do not mean to offend…" Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as the breath shuddered in and out of her body, then opened them to find him still staring at her intently. "What if I decline, my lord?"

It had certainly been the wrong thing to say. How could she have been so _stupid_?

Tywin Lannister was looking at her as if she were an insect, and Sansa trembled in fear of his impending wrath.

"Push up your sleeves, my lady." It was said in the same tone she heard him use on those who were not welcome to dispute him, commanding and accepting no argument. Sansa peered into his face fearfully, her breath quickening once again.

"My lord, please—"

"Push. Up. Your. Sleeves." The Hand's tone was unforgiving, his jaw was clenched, and Sansa complied immediately, fearing the worst; that Tywin was worse than Joffrey, or Cersei, or Jaime—worse than any of the Lannisters—and that the last shred of kindness she had seen from a lion was whilst she had been married to Tyrion.

Sansa bit her lip in shame as she waited for his eyes to flicker over the bruises covering her wrists and forearms, many faded to yellow and light blue, others a fresh magenta.

"Is this what you want out of life, my lady?" Sansa stiffened, not quite believing her ears. Her eyes found his and she saw a flicker of pity in Tywin's green ones. Or was it disgust? "You would rather remain at court. The toy of a boy who will soon put you in an early grave." His voice changed now, and it sounded almost as if he were accusing her. "And what of the North? And Winterfell? You would see it fall into the hands of someone with not a single drop of Stark blood. Yet what are your words, Lady Stark?"

"Winter is coming."

"Yes," he said. "And what of your mother's words? Or did you forget _those_ in the time you pretended to be a Lannister?"

Her heart nearly stopped at his words, but she forced her tongue to work, not wanting to risk displeasing him.

"Family. Duty. Honor," Sansa breathed.

Lord Tywin's lip twitched, but whether he was hiding a smirk or a grimace, Sansa could not tell.

"_Family_. Duty. Honor." His gaze intensified, became darker as he watched her. "You are the last living Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North. Your first born son will hold Winterfell as Warden of the North, under the realm of Joffrey or any sons that may come out of his and the Tyrell girl's marriage." Tywin cleared his throat before continuing. "It should be _our _first born son. You would be wise not to spurn my offer, Lady Stark. You are not held in much favor throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and have not been for many years. This is perhaps your only chance of reclaiming the honor of your family, of House Stark." Then his eyes were cold, so cold Sansa shivered, knowing he was right, knowing she was out of options. "If you say no, you will be ripped apart at court until Joffrey tires of you. Any children you gave him would be lucky to die before they made it out of the cradle or even womb. Joffrey will never legitimize any of them. If you are smart enough to survive the King, you will probably be married to a lesser lord of no real importance. You will have no claim to Winterfell, as a lesser lord could never hold a title so great as Warden of the North…or Lord of Winterfell. And neither could his children, regardless of their mother's blood. You will lose _everything_."


End file.
